


A Song of Wolves and Dragons

by King_Jon_The_White_Wolf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lyanna Is Alive, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar lives, F/M, R plus L equals J, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9685994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/King_Jon_The_White_Wolf/pseuds/King_Jon_The_White_Wolf
Summary: Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark find themselves in current day Westeros sixteen years after their deaths. Jon Snow prepares to journey to King's Landing to squire for Robert Baratheon, while Daenerys attempts to free herself from her brother's shackles and make her way across the Narrow Sea. King Robert comes into confrontation with the man and woman who haunt his dreams, as Eddard Stark struggles to discover where his true loyalty lies. Wolves and dragons battle lions and stags as the cold winds return. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

_Reviews are encouraged._

* * *

_Ages of certain characters have been changed to better fit the story._

_Ages:_

_Rhaegar Targaryen- 20 (36 after time skip)_

_Lyanna Stark- 16 (32 after time skip)_

_Robert Baratheon- 18 (34 after time skip)_

_Eddard Stark- 18 (34 after time skip)_

_Jon Snow- 0 (16 after time skip)_

* * *

_Planned POVs:_

_Main Characters: Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen, Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen_

_Side Characters: Tyrion Lannister, Eddard Stark, Robb Stark_

Guide:

Normal Text

"Characters Speaking"

_Character's Thought Process_

Line Break- Separation of notes and story, or a skip of time if within the text

**Disclaimer:** Everything associated with A Song of Ice and Fire rightfully belongs to George RR Martin.

* * *

**Chapter I: Fire and Ice**

**Rhaegar Targaryen**

The stunning visuals of the Trident were outweighed by the smell of blood in the air. Scattered throughout the fields belonging to Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun lay hordes of broken and battered bodies, some whose hearts had already stopped beating and others who were holding on to their lives by a thread, blood spraying from their open wounds as they begged to be spared. They were naive to believe that one could negotiate with a stag. Torn banners littered the crossing of the trident, bearing the sigils of a plethora of Westeros' most prestigious houses. The sun and spear of Dorne laid battered on the ground, as did the direwolf of House Stark, the trout of House Tully, the falcon of House Arryn, and the Stag of House Baratheon. However, the majority of those who had fallen bore the dragon of House Targaryen on their armaments. Rhaegar's royalist army, composed mostly of plump lords and young upstarts looking to bring some glory to their names, was being mowed down by the Usurper's men. Although possessing far greater numbers than the rebel army, a single shift of the tides could generate enough momentum to send a ferocious wave towards the royalist army, given their concerning number of casualties. A slender yet well-toned silver-haired prince sat upon his horse in the midst of battle, taking a moment to strategically analyze the Baratheon forces. Scanning through the rebel army, Rhaegar determined that the opposing forces were far more organized. Whereas the Targaryen army fought as individuals, the army of the Stag clumped together like brothers in arms. The Targaryen Prince found himself unable to communicate with his men since the clash commenced, yet the booming voice of Robert Baratheon perfectly barked out orders to his men no matter where he was positioned on the field of battle.

"Rhaegar!" boomed a faraway voice.

The Mad King Aerys II had cursed his name when he protected his mother and Viserys from their beatings, and Elia had thrown a justified tantrum at the discovery of his favour for the wolf. Yet Rhaegar had never heard his name uttered with such an amount of hatred. It was a voice of iron; a tone hard and grand like the castle of the Storm Kings. A voice that instantly commanded the respect of his allies and similarly struck fear into all who opposed him. Rhaegar's eyes met with those of a bulking beast standing over six feet tall, with a strong black beard that fit the part of a king. A creature's gaze this certainly was. Rhaegar had grown accustomed to the eyes of men, a complicated swirl of emotion that could lead you straight towards the desires of one's heart if you studied them long enough. It was an important skill set to have as the heir to the Iron Throne, surrounded by liars of different backgrounds and qualities who all lust for different prizes, and who would satisfy their craving of ambition through any means necessary. However, the eyes of Robert Baratheon were unique to the eyes of men Rhaegar had known. These black beads lacked all complexity and reason, consumed by anger and ferocity. The mighty stag was a creature lacking any sympathy and possessing only a desire to kill. A predator pouncing on its prey.

Robert had significantly closed the distance between them, forcing his mount to gallop at such a pace that the steed was likely to lose its footing. His black stallion was a blur of darkness beneath him on the field, surrounded by soldiers engaged in battle with only the light of the moon to provide them with a glimpse of their enemies. As the mighty black-haired man who wished for nothing but violence and bloodshed sped towards the perceptive and calculated Prince, Rhaegar contemplated all the things he wished for in the midst of this depressing zone of war. _I wish for this battle to end. I wish for my brothers to return home to their wives and newborn babes, with a smile on their faces and all the tranquility in the world. I wish to walk amongst the people once again, playing my tunes for the common folk as they wish me good fortune. I wish to hear the song of ice and fire, the one with wolves and dragons, honour and passions, duty and love, death and life. Most of all, I wish for Lyanna._ The bellowing of a stag broke the Prince from his contemplation.

"Rhaegar! I will fuck your corpse bloody, dragon spawn!"

A man who fought with grace and intelligence, with swiftness yet with precision, with reluctance yet with valour, came face to face with a man who would rather watch the world burn than have Rhaegar escape the Stranger. The hatred in his voice was still very evident, and the gleam in his eyes all too haunting. Robert Baratheon, the first man outside the royal bloodline to rebel against the dragon, adorned large chestnut antlers protruding from the sides of his mighty helm. The chest plate of his dark steel plate armor was covered by a yellow Baratheon vest which sported a stag on its front. In his right hand lay a weapon that any other man in the Kingdom of Westeros would have to wield with both hands, with the exception of Gregor "The Mountain" Clegane. It was a massive steel war hammer, the only weapon fitting for the beast of a man who wielded it. Rhaegar had listened to a plethora of stories regarding the Stag and his war hammer. Countless numbers of men had found their skulls crushed underneath its force by the hands of Robert of House Baratheon. The war hammer had produced such a staggering amount of grieving wives that some of the Baratheon troops had begun referring to it as Widowmaker. The Stag was indeed a man as cold and hard as the lands that yielded him.

Accepting his challenge, the Prince ordered his horse to gallop ahead towards the Baratheon. As the soft soil underneath Rhaegar's horse tore apart, the two men who shared nothing in common except their unearthly love for the same woman met on the battlefield. Rhaegar could best any man with a lance and most with a sword, yet the ferocity and savagery of Robert Baratheon easily overpowered him. With blood and dirt covering his armor and the stench of death reeking all over him, Robert lifted his shoulders and whipped the war hammer towards his torso. Rhaegar foresaw this attack, unable to parry or dodge due to the strength and lengthiness of Robert's steel. As a last ditch effort, the Prince attempted to bring the Stag down to the earth alongside him by lunging his sword towards an exposed neck. However, the reach of Rhaegar's sword fell short while Rhaegar hit true. A shockwave was sent rippling through Rhaegar's body as his armor tore and his ribs shattered, a pain unlike any he had ever experienced within his life. As his steed dashed away, Rhaegar was falling through the night air with blood dripping off of his lips. It was when his body hit the cold earth with a hole in his armor and a blade missing from his hand that Rhaegar Targaryen would finally accept his defeat.

Robert Baratheon climbed off of his battle-hardened mount, which almost collapsed to the ground out of exhaustion due to overworking. The Dragon Prince mustered every fiber of his being together and channeled enough strength to bring himself to his knees, unwilling to be found lying on the dirt by his opposition. As the surrounding soldiers, oblivious to their commanders' quarrel, continued to engage in battle, Robert Baratheon strode towards Rhaegar Targaryen. The Prince who had gained the admiration of every maiden across Westeros now sported clumps of mud in his platinum hair and blood was running down his chin as he clutched his wounded side in agony. Rhaegar glanced upwards to find the Baratheon looming over him like a tower, in his hands the famed war hammer that had been responsible for many of the deaths within the Royal Army. The black-haired youth gave the white-haired Prince a low growl.

"It seems you favour your side, Rhaegar. I would enjoy putting you out of your misery." Robert grunted.

The Prince looked upon the soon-to-be King with a sad smile. "Strike me down, Robert, see what good it does you." Rhaegar began, resulting in another stare full of pure hatred from Robert. "It will not change the outcome of the wars to come. The feuds of the south are meaningless."

The Usurper's gaze hardened on the heir to the Iron Throne. "If I strike you true, and I strike you hard, I would tear through your fucking meat and bones and break your cold heart dragon. And then she'd come back to me, I'd regain the women meant to be my wife, and she will bear my children and never have to fear the likes of men such as yourself."

"Lyanna-"

"Don't you dare speak that fucking name! It is far too good to be uttered by the likes of incestuous dragons!" Robert interrupted, seething with anger and feeling the urge to rob Rhaegar of his life. However, the dragon Prince remained unfazed.

"Lyanna. Lyanna would sooner drink moon tea than carry your child in her belly, to be born and brought up alongside your bastards. You can't regain something you've never owned, Baratheon. And Lyanna has never loved you."

This prompted Robert's war hammer to meet the side of Rhaegar's head, sending the Prince's back to the earth beneath him. A pulsating throb rang throughout his head as the Prince's vision turned white and blood trickled down the side of his face and over his cheekbones. The wound stung like all the seven hells combined, flesh tore into and ripped apart by steel. The ground below Rhaegar was cold and stained red from the young men fighting their lords' war. Cries of distress erupted around the battlefield as the soldiers caught sight of their liege lords meeting each other on the field of battle. Targaryen soldiers began rallying to their Prince, but to no avail; the Baratheons had already brought down half of their numbers and were fighting with a ferocity that the Targaryens had never witnessed before. Rhaegar, hearing the dying cries of his men, attempted to pull himself up from the ground. At his attempt to regain his composure, his chest met the hard boot of Robert Baratheon which forced him back onto the ground. The Prince was sprawled out on the ground viewing doubles of the hardened Stormlander before him. Robert Baratheon let out a wild war cry, prompting his men to shout back in newfound enthusiasm.

"Ours is the fury!" cried the Baratheon army as they cut through the flesh of the remaining Targaryen loyalists, quickly gaining the numbers advantage within the battle.

Rhaegar's vision had finally settled, his gaze met with the unrelenting death stare of Robert Baratheon. _This man wants me dead._ Rhaegar's white hair had now turned crimson as a result of his head wound, and his armor was crushed and nearly hanging off of him. The stag approached Rhaegar until he stood over his exhausted and broken body. With a hard stare full of resentment, Robert Baratheon prepared himself to end the life Rhaegar Targaryen.

"You lost the war, Rhaegar." Robert began. Rhaegar spit out a dark clump of blood onto the soil, prompting Robert to snarl in disgust.

"I've lost the battle." The Prince replied, his eyes still shining with hope. _Am I the one who suffered losses due to the war? My wolf is safe from the grasp of this traitor. Our child will live in a world where the dragon doesn't reign supreme, for better or for worse, yet he shall fulfill the prophecy. A promised prince born from both fire and ice. He'll be the best of both of us. The king that Westeros needs._

"You lost the war!" Robert boomed. "You've lost the war." The Stag peered through Rhaegar's eyes rather than into them, believing the man to be of equal stature to a bag of meat and bones. "First, I'll bring Lyanna back to Storm's End, where she'll remain until I take my last breath! Then, I'll shove this hammer right through the head of your cunt father. I'll rape your whore mother until her thighs are raw and pouring with blood, and then take her head in front of the court. Next will be the heads of your daughter, and your son, and all the fucking dragon spawn left within Westeros." Robert finished, raising his war hammer into the air as the war raged on around them. For each Baratheon soldier death, thrice as many Targaryens would fall.

Rhaegar stared into the eyes of a man consumed by hatred and cruelty. The Prince couldn't believe he would speak such madness and compose such revolting ideas. Rhaegar always believed it was the Iron Throne that truly made the Targaryens mad, not the stains of incest within their bloodline. A symbol of power and unquestioned authority over all the other Westerosi lords. If Aerys II Targaryen became truly mad, Rhaegar didn't want to imagine what the throne would do to someone like Robert, with a capacity for such cruelty and savagery against those on the wrong side of the war.

"Robert...there are innocents on each side of every war...leave my children out of this. See that my mother and siblings remain unharmed. Honour this wish of a dying man, and I wish you a better reign than my father." Rhaegar replied, swallowing his pride and anger in one last desperate plea to keep his family intact. Robert gave Rhaegar a threatening snarl.

"The blood of the dragon will be eradicated from Westeros. You've spent too much time flying in the sky, dragon, and that is why you find yourself a sniveling babe when it all comes crashing down to the ground. You took my love, you killed my men, and now you ask me to fucking spare your family? A dragon with broken wings and dulled teeth." Robert clutched on to his war hammer with both hands. "That's the thing about stags. Even when our antlers are broken, we have fire in our bellies and fury in our souls!" bellowed Robert, his cry resonating throughout the battlefield as the Targaryens began their retreat. With one definitive thrust, Robert Baratheon brought his war hammer down onto the chest of Rhaegar Targaryen. The rubies on Rhaegar's chest plate projected from his broken armor, as the heir to the Iron Throne's chest caved in. A plethora of red came hurling out of the Prince's mouth, splattering on top of what was left of his armor and painting the metal with his own blood.

Rhaegar could hear the shouting of his men as his consciousness threatened to drift away from him. The land around him was ravaged due to war. The torn and battered banners of his house sprawled across the ground, bodies from both sides of the battle were piled up on top of each other like a haystack, and the smoke coming from the Riverland houses set ablaze due to direct orders from the Mad King covered the night air. _So...is this what defeat feels like?_ Rhaegar struggled to keep his grasp on life as he glanced towards his murderer one final time. The man who slew him was no longer consumed by fury. In his eyes, there returned a certain glistening that Rhaegar knew every man possessed. Robert Baratheon was no longer an animal running purely on instinct, he craved much more than revenge. There came the ambition and lust that consumed every mortal man to have lived on Westeros or Essos. _There returns to Robert the reason he started the war in the first place. He never loved Lyanna, not originally. He loved the idea of her sleeping next to him every night and waking alongside him every morning. Robert had only seen her once or twice in his entire life, yet in his bold mind full of ambition and power lust she was the next obstacle to conquer. Men want what they cannot have, and Robert Baratheon will never lay one of his hoofs on Lyanna Stark._

The Prince watched the stag's lips curl upwards in satisfaction just before the darkness overtook him. A pair of reignited dark eyes watched Rhaegar Targaryen take his last breath.

_Lyanna._

* * *

**16 Years Later**

Rhaegar expected to feel the cold envelop his body as his life drained away. He foresaw his body slowly decomposing into the ground, where he bled and died alongside his brothers. Robert Baratheon would drag the remaining pieces of his lifeless body to his mother, siblings, wife, and children in front of the whole court. _I'm sorry I failed you. Mother, Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon. Lyanna, you must live on for the sake of our son._

Instead the coldness of the Stranger's touch, warmth embraced Rhaegar's skin. His eyes sprang open to meet a white light, momentarily blinding the Prince and ravaging his senses. Rhaegar brought an arm up to his face to cover his eyes from the light. He could breathe once again, and the unbearable pain which the massive war hammer was responsible for ceased. The Prince opened his eyes to discover a clear blue sky with a large yellow sun shining overhead. He quickly glanced around to find exuberant city-goers and frolicsome whores parade in a tightly condensed street filled with an abundance of people. Around him were tall buildings the colour of a red wine, enveloped with the sand from the arid landscape surrounding them. Unlike King's Landing, each building was unique and reached to the sky, a certain sense of pride embodied into each one. There was one building in particular, however, that clearly stood out from the rest. It sprouted higher than the buildings around Rhaegar and contained strong and sturdy reinforced walls. This was a palace fit for one of the high lords of Westeros. A startling and preposterous realization suddenly dawned on Rhaegar Targaryen. He was alive, in a land he had never seen before.

* * *

**Lyanna**

"Promise me, Ned."

Lyanna Stark lay on her deathbed. It was a depressing four-cornered room, the air heavy with death and sorrow. The sheets encompassing her body were covered in blood, gore, and after birth. Her long dark brown hair lay spilled out over her sweat-soaked pillows, as she used the last morsels of her energy to relay a message to her beloved older brother.

"Promise me."

Perhaps this would be for the best. Her heart had shattered into a million pieces and her world had been brought to a permanent end the day it was revealed that Rhaegar Targaryen fell at the Battle of the Trident, with no trace of his body. It wasn't cruel enough that she couldn't see him again, but the current revelation made it also impossible to retrieve his bones for a proper burial in Winterfell. A once defiant young girl who claimed she would never fall in love and bear children for no lord contemplated killing herself at the news of her husband's death. The only thing in this world left belonging to Rhaegar Targaryen was the raven-haired bundle enveloped in Eddard Stark's shaking arms. And Jon was also the only thing in this world that had kept her alive. Lyanna's watery eyes gazed over Eddard.

"I promise." the solemn and dutiful Lord of Winterfell barely choked out. The man's tears leaked out onto the newborn's Stark-like face, broken-hearted at the thought that the person he cherished the most was about to depart from this world.

Lyanna's gray eyes shifted down to her son, Jon. She would never get to cradle him in her arms as the babe slowly drifted off to sleep. She would never have him feed at her breast. She would miss his first words, and his first steps. Who would comfort him when he was ill, who would shower him with love every day and every night? As a certain thought sprung into her head, for the first time since Rhaegar Targaryen's death Lyanna truly believed that she wanted to remain in this world filled with war, treachery, and death. _My son will never know the love of his mother. My son will be a motherless child._

Life left the once energetic and determined she-wolf and Eddard Stark sobbed for the first time since he was a child.

* * *

**16 Years Later**

Lyanna's eyes flung open as she sat up straight and breathed fresh air. The sizzling air around her felt as if it was scorching her pale skin, yet her body was no longer feeling the effects of hemorrhaging, fever, and childbirth. In her surroundings, beggars pleaded for scraps of food and whores eagerly exposed their flesh as men with wandering eyes walked down the streets. The buildings were short of stature and prestige and in horrid condition, cracks lining the walls and garbage piled in the windowsills. Yet it was too populous to simply be a run-down town. It was then when Lyanna feasted her eyes upon a grand copper castle that touched the sky, with nothing except ocean in the horizon behind it. Lyanna gasped in shock, her hauntingly beautiful silver eyes wide with terror and her mouth agape, as she gazed upon the castle where her father and brother were murdered.

* * *

**The End**

**Chapter 2 Coming Soon**


	2. A Journey South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feast at Winterfell rages onwards. A King shares words of wisdom with a bastard. Jon receives a generous offer. Eddard reveals a long-kept secret.

_Ages of certain characters have been changed to better fit the story._

_Ages:_

_Stark_

_Jon Snow- 16_

_Eddard Stark- 34_

_Catelyn Tully- 33_

_Robb Stark- 16_

_Sansa Stark- 14_

_Arya Stark- 12_

_Bran Stark- 9_

_Rickon Stark- 5_

_Lannister_

_Cersei Lannister- 34_

_Jaime Lannister- 34_

_Tyrion Lannister- 28_

_Baratheon_

_Robert Baratheon- 34_

_Joffrey Baratheon- 14_

_Myrcella Baratheon- 13_

_Tommen Baratheon- 9_

**Chapter II: A Journey South**

**Jon Snow**

The smell of festivity and mead and bawdiness was thick throughout the air of Winterfell, contrary to the usual gray and dreary and uneventful surroundings. King Robert's jests and boisterous laughter radiated through the formidable brick walls of Winterfell and projected itself to the training grounds. Men bearing the banners of Stark and Baratheon sat together and drunkenly sang the songs of their respective cultures and homelands. The men belonging to the Royal Army preferred songs with lyrics that rolled off the tongue with ease while vividly describing overzealous tales concerning a gallant and diligent knight swiftly ending his enemies' lives to rescue some gentle highborn lady. The southerners had a way of spinning their tales so cleverly and carefully that brutally butchering a handful of men sounded more similar to water dancing than murdering. Meanwhile, the songs of the North came a magnitude of lesser ease to the ears. Ragged tales of killing boomed from the mouths of pale-skinned and dark-haired members of the feast. Although these songs initially caused a great disturbance amongst some of the southern soldiers, most of whom were more familiar with drills and routines than their own swords, they eventually grew accustomed to the rough northern bellowing and began to join them in their songs. The Stark and Baratheon armies seemed for a moment to be just as much of brothers as their liege lords were.

A raven from Robert I Baratheon informing the Stark family of his impending arrival was enough for the cooks of Winterfell to conjure up the greatest feast that the North had ever seen. Although the North was usually weary of arbitrarily dishing out food for special occasions due to the harsh nature of northern winters, the news that Lord Eddard Stark would be hosting his childhood friend in Winterfell was reason enough to refocus the distribution of food from winter reserves to the cavernous pit known as Robert Baratheon's appetite. A plethora of steaming turkey, chicken, deer, and vegetable dishes were distributed evenly between five long oval-shaped tables. The empty plates laid in heaps on top of one another and the remaining dishes that had yet to be entirely consumed were, for the most part, half full. Despite juggling the daunting tasks of diminishing the food supply of a feast in one hand and fondling a pair of breasts in the other, Robert Baratheon had unsurprisingly devoured more food than any other man at the feast. The same could be said for Cersei Lannister in relation to the staggering amount of wine she managed to drink.

As the festivities raged on inside the castle walls, Jon looked down towards the stunted outcast of House Lannister as their conversation neared an end. Jon was greatly offended by Tyrion Lannister, who lectured him on how he should live out his life as the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark. Jon believed that he could never possibly understand the hardships he went through. Everywhere he went, Jon was regarded as the sole imperfection in Eddard Stark's untainted legacy. The same northern vassals who respected his father enough to have seemingly followed him to the grave during Robert's Rebellion would sneer at Jon and whisper "bastard" while his back was turned. The mother of his brothers and sisters, Lady Catelyn Stark, would shoot him cold daggers every time their eyes would meet. During dinners and luncheons, she would ofttimes feign ignorance to his very existence, and when he was fortunate enough to gain her acknowledgment the moniker of "The Bastard" was always used in place of his name. Tyrion may have known the shame of being alienated by others for the sole reason of his underwhelming stature and nothing more, but Jon was certain he had not experienced the shame of being the grandest and most infamous mistake of the man he admired and loved the most in this world.

Tyrion glanced up at Jon's face with a knowing look and a sly smile threatening to grace his lips. "All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes." he sighed, before wobbling back to the feast, presumably to consume more alcohol. The realization dawned upon Jon that Tyrion Lannister may very well be the one individual within all of Westeros that he can relate to. Amongst Westeros' noble lords, breathtaking ladies, and chivalrous knights there lived a collection of cripples, bastards, and broken things, masked by the significance of those in their surroundings. Very few would pay notice to a Snow when standing alongside the heir to the North, a son second in the line of succession, a beautiful maiden guaranteed to one day marry a lord, or even a prestigious master-at-arms belonging to a small northern house. Jon was sure of the fact that he was an outcast amongst his siblings, yet until he witnessed that pitiful look in the eyes of Tyrion Lannister, he believed himself to be an outcast of the entire world.

Jon walked down the gravel path of Winterfell's training grounds to find the practice dummy he had spent the last hour trying to hack down. The raven-haired youth proceeded by carefully yet firmly slashing his sword through the air and against the hard wood of the figure, contrary to his previously vicious swings. Jon had practiced combat with a sword since his sixth name day. Winterfell's heavy wooden practice sword that the boy once lugged around quickly became as light as a feather, while his brother Robb was still practicing his fighting stance. He received a genuine steel blade from Lord Eddard Stark when he turned one and ten, and ever since the blade had become a part of his arm. Jon's prowess with a blade and his maneuvering on horseback far exceeded Robb's, yet it was the heir of Winterfell who lords, ladies, and commoners alike deemed the next great warrior of the north. The attention Robb received from his fellow Northmen did not engender a feeling of jealousy within Jon; he wouldn't let his desire to prove himself to the world in order to overcome the title of bastard interfere with his relationship with his brother.

After hours of swordplay, the moon had peaked in the middle of the sky and the rowdy festivities from within Winterfell was replaced with the tranquility of the night. Jon delivered swing after swing to the heavily damaged training contraption, his hands quickly becoming raw and blistered due to the wooden hilt they were wrapped around. His striking came to an abrupt halt when an ominous feeling overcame Jon. He sensed a pair of dark eyes, ones which had witnessed all the fruits of life yet also all of its tragedy and sorrow, peer into his back. Jon rested his sword arm to his side and turned around to discover King Robert of the House Baratheon, carefully watching him with an unknown thought that was lodged deep within his brain.

When Jon had heard that the King was traveling to Winterfell, he grew anxious to feast his eyes upon the man his father deemed the greatest commander in Westeros. Jon had half expected that his authoritative demeanor and sculpted frame would have diminished after sixteen years of sitting on the Iron Throne with few wars to fuel his appetite for conflict, however nothing could have prepared him for the shell of a stag he saw before him. Instead of a chiseled stomach and a solid chest, Robert graced a belly that almost plummeted down past his belt. Instead of refined strands the color of ebony, on the King's head lay unkempt hair with the tone of coal. His clothing was ruffled and unbuttoned due to a combination of whoring and drinking, clearly unfit for someone of his stature. Despite the sorry state of the man before him Jon recalled his teachings and ceased his studying of the King, dropping to one knee and letting his gaze fall to the gravel beneath him.

"Your Grace."

Robert Baratheon took a second to study the boy through unfamiliar eyes. He proceeded by walking towards the kneeling raven-haired youth and clasped his shoulder with a gloved hand. An amused smile made its way to the King's face as he gave a loud grunt.

"Get the hell up boy," Robert commanded, holding back a chuckle from the way the intimidated bastard scurried to bring himself to his feet and straighten his back under a commanding gaze. Jon was in close contact with the King, a mere couple of feet measuring the distance between. As their eyes met Robert's face broke out into a smile.

"What's with all this damn formality in a private place like this? Calm down boy, you look like you're about to shit yourself!"

Robert barked out a hearty laugh, clearly the slightest bit intoxicated from the previous events. Jon relaxed his tensed shoulders and offered the King a weak smile.

"Apologies, Your G-"

"I'll have none of that you bloody fool!" interrupted Robert. "I'm your uncle in all but name and blood yet you cower before me like a stupid little tavern slut?"

Robert's hefty laughter rendered Jon speechless. Through observing the actions of his father since he was as young as he could remember, Jon came to the conclusion that true lords should be patient, modest, and restrained. Robert Baratheon possessed none of these traits, yet because of the way his father spoke about him when questioned, the Stark siblings grew up regarding Robert Baratheon to be amongst the truest men to ever live in Westeros. Robert's antics settled down, his eyes shifting from Jon's dark pupils to the sword in his hand.

"I saw the way you were swinging that blade. Seems as if you've got a decent arm on you boy, decent enough to knock half the shits my wife recommended for the Kingsguard on their asses." Jon smiled from Robert's recognition of his abilities.

"Thank you, Your-" Jon paused as he watched Robert's face turn solid and stern. "Uncle." he finished. Robert's face once again brightened as the two men shared a smile at each other.

"Boy, you remind me of the Robert Baratheon of old. _Gods,_ those were the days! I was a fuckin' monster back then!" Robert gained a determined look in his eyes as he remembered back to the days of his prime. "Some bloody fools say alcohol and whoring are the downfall of great warriors. I tell those fools to ask any of the truest knights in Westeros, the Gods know I'm not one of them, what keeps them up at night. You'd expect them to say money, women, even fucking wine!" Robert roared in a playful manner. "Each of those celibate cunts would tell you that it's time. A man can keep his cock in his breeches and his mind clear, but at the end of the day, time turns around and fucks you in the ass. As soon as you realize it you're a shadow of your prime, all your heroics become legends that fall from a drunken bard's mouth. The stories are changed so much you don't even recognize them, Gods be good you'd be too fucking old to anyway. You start trying to make new tales, _real_ tales, for your enemies to fear and the children to admire, but the ink has dried and all the great writers move on down to pompous little shits that'll spit on your grave and replace your songs of bravery with ones of their own." Robert chuckled and brought his large hand up to his chin to scratch his beard. "That's why I'll whore and drink until I'm too old and decrepit to wipe my own arse."

Jon couldn't fathom how Robert Baratheon saw a version of his younger self within him. He couldn't picture himself against a wall of enemy corpses covered in blood and guts, smashing his way through the opposition with sheer brutality and a very large war hammer. _I could imagine myself on the field of battle with a swift blade, parrying my enemies' attacks and exposing their flesh as soon as they could no longer keep up with my speed. Or on horseback with a lance in my arms, thousands of spectators chanting my name as the banners of House Stark fly proudly at one end of the arena._ Although Jon could never deliver a bone-shattering blow to an unfortunate victim, his speed and precision was outmatched by few within the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

"How about you?" Robert grunted, prompting Jon to give him a blank look. The King swallowed back a derisive laugh and sighed at the boy.

"I'm talking about whoring and drinking boy!" Robert boomed, his voice resonating around Winterfell and likely awakening half the castle from its slumber. "Back in my day you weren't a real man until you bedded one girl from each of the seven regions of Westeros. We called it making the eight! Why settle for one flavour of sweets when you can have a handful of each?" He let out a chuckle. "Although I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. Yes, that pretty little face would have cunts lining up from Oldtown to Mole's Town to share a bed with you." The Baratheon glanced over at Jon to discover that his eyes had shifted down towards his feet and his stance had shifted to an uncomfortable slump. Robert's mouth gaped open. "Don't tell me boy..." he began.

"Aye, it's true. I've never been with a woman."

Robert stood there bewildered. "What the fuck is wrong with you boy? You cannot convince me that the whores of the North have not tried! Perhaps they find you too brooding." Robert said. "Aye, that must be it. Girls like a strong man, a confident man, not a man who lurks in the corners of their father's castle with their head hung down."

"You mistake me, Your Grace. It is not as if they've never tried before. I've seen plenty of...women. It's just that I'm a bastard-"

"And what the fuck does being a bastard have to do with anything?" Robert interrupted with a somewhat irritated look upon his face. "I have dozens of bastards within the south and every one of my eldest little shits have probably bedded a woman by now, likely having some bastards of their own by now." Robert smirked at Jon's timidness concerning sexual affairs.

 _I would have lay with them, but I would not be so cruel to condemn a child to the life of a bastard. The condescending looks and clever japes of self-absorbed men haunt my dreams at night. A bastard of a bastard is what they would call any child of mine, and for that reason, no child should be unfortunate enough to have to suffer alongside a father such as I._ Thoughts rang through Jon's head, but he would dare not voice them to the King. Robert Baratheon acted as he liked and bedded whoever he wanted with no trace of concern for the potential consequences, believing that someone else would clean up the mess he had made. And he was correct in assuming so.

"So, do you want to stay a landless and wifeless bastard, or will you put that sword arm of yours to proper use?" Robert asked, gaining him a quizzical gaze from Jon Snow.

"I'm going to ask my lord father if I can travel to the Night's Watch with my Uncle Benjen. He told me that on the Wall even bastards such as myself can rise higher than trueborn men of noble birth. I would go see if there is any truth to his statement." Jon finished. He awaited a bellowing laugh from the King, followed by a wish of good fortune in his upcoming battles against white walkers, snarks, and grumkins. He was surprised when Robert Baratheon, for the first time in their conversation, kept a composed face save for the small smile gracing his lips.

"If the war went differently, we would be bound by blood, you and I. And I'll be damned if I let my blood freeze his celibate ass off in the middle of nowhere, with only old men and a right hand to keep you company." Robert's smile broke out into a full on grin as he clasped the boy on the back of the neck, slightly startling Jon. "Leave the North behind, boy. Ride south with me in a couple days time, whenever we decide to go back to the pile of shit known as King's Landing. The next time you return North boy, you'll have some tales of your own."

Jon looked towards Robert bewildered and almost oblivious to the subject of the conversation. "What do you mean to ask of me, Your Grace?" Jon barely breathed out.

"I would ask nothing of you except this: Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and the truest man I've ever met within this world that has gone to shit, ride south alongside our royal party and end this life of misery. Squire for me." Jon's mouth fell agape and his knees threatened to buckle beneath the weight of his newfound opportunity. It had been exactly what he was awaiting, a chance to escape the life of a bastard and achieve something significant despite Lord Theon and Lady Stark's constant reminders that he was as insignificant as dirt on which they walked upon. As Jon's mind ran wild with ambition, King Robert released his clasp on Jon and put some distance between them. A fitting distance apart for a King and a bastard. "I would ask if you would have it, but I'm the fucking king, and I always get what I want."

Robert Baratheon and his sizeable frame sauntered away from the astonished bastard, leaving him in the dark with nothing but the well-rounded moon and several damaged training contraptions for company. For perhaps the first time in his life, Jon forgot about the shame of being a Snow and his chest became heavy with the pride of being a Stark of Winterfell, the son of the truest man this realm had ever known.

* * *

Within the now crowded walls of Winterfell, days have passed. The initial hectic celebrations eventually died down, replaced with the aimless wandering of the highborn and lowborn, visitors and guests, children and adults as they all anxiously awaited to escape from the over populous assemblage. The Stark family began to yearn for the restoration of their privacy within the once intimate castle, whereas the Lannisters craved for the scent of the Narrow Sea and the return of fairer weather. An initial cause of the current tense atmosphere was Brandon Stark's plunge from the top of a tower within Winterfell's walls. The event sent the entirety of the Stark family into an outrage, especially Lady Catelyn, who's lifeless form had been sitting the boy's bedside tending to his frail broken body.

An overabundance of emotions consumed Jon at the discovery of his half-brother's chronic injury. Bran would be maimed for the rest of his life, or even infirm in a state of limbo if he never awakened again. There was shock, sorrow, and even guilt on Lady Catelyn's behalf for refraining from harshly scolding him after his initial disobedience. But most of all there was anger. The realization dawned upon Jon that his little brother Brandon, a child who had dreamed of becoming a great knight and shielding the scarce innocence within the realm, would likely never stand upright again. For the past week, the same reoccurring thought reeled within Jon's mind. _Bran had climbed the walls of Winterfell hundreds of times; not once did he fall._ However, Jon would not let his suspicions best him. An ambitious attempt to seek a grander meaning behind Bran's misfortune, a meaning aside from accident or fate, would undoubtedly prove futile. Bran had a sense of confidence within his footing, whether true or misplaced Jon was not sure, and combined with a child's lack of prudence the results proved devastating. Still, Jon could not shake the negative feeling that latched on and festered inside his very being. That maybe somehow, someway, this tragedy was more than an accident.

Jon knew his thoughts would be wasted contemplating the possibility of conspiracies against his little brother. _Although when the Lannisters are in your home, how could you possibly be safe?_ By the time Jon arose from his indolent state, wiping the sweat off his brow and heaving heavy sheets off of his body, the sun was at its peak in the sky and the majority of the castle was alive. Except for those who drank an amount of wine comparable to Robert Baratheon's impressive guzzling the night before. Those bearing the banners of the stag came together in Winterfell's courtyard, singing songs like "The Dornishman's Wife" and "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" in an attempt to reinstate the vibrancy the castle displayed almost a week prior. The Baratheon men only accomplished irritating both the Starks and the Lannisters.

The raven-haired youth found his way out of his room and ascended up towards his lord father's solar. Jon had prolonged approaching Lord Stark with Robert Baratheon's generous offer for him to ride south alongside them. Although he was eager to venture to new lands and seek his own chance at honor and glory, Jon harbored a sense of regret for leaving Winterfell behind. The castle had been good to him, as had the majority of the people within it. _Bastards never have a place within their homes,_ Jon knew. And it was Lady Stark who reminded him every chance she obtained. Although he had beheld all of her disdain and often wished she would have been a gentler woman towards him, Jon couldn't fault her for not being kindly. He was the sole cause of all discomfort and the sole wedge within her relationship with his father. She was the closest thing to a mother Jon had ever known, or would ever know, he suspected, and it wounded him knowing that each time she was forced to tolerate his presence she was overcome with shame. Reminded of being a seven and ten year old girl once again with a babe suckling at her breast, watching as the husband who had left her alone and with child a year earlier came striding into Winterfell with another woman's son in his arms.

Jon arrived at the door to his father's solar and promptly rattled the entrance with his knuckles to seek permission to enter. A shuffling of papers and the scooting of a chair could be heard from the other side of the room, until a voice that was as hard as the North yet as sincere as a father's should be replied.

"Come on in." Eddard Stark breathed from the other side.

Jon opened the door to find his visibly distressed father gazing at him through weary eyes. The room matched the remainder of Winterfell; it possessed a solemn gray color scheme and was nearly devoid of any light. The curtains belonging to two small windows at the back of the solar were firmly shut, and although the room was cleaned almost daily, the castle truly appeared over eight thousand years old. The brick walls were stone and gray and graced sporadic cracks along the area of each of the sides. The floor was fatigued by the footsteps of hundreds of lords spanning back thousands of years. A wearied Eddard Stark completed this dreary image, a man who usually stood so tall and proud weighed down, battered, and bent over by the substantial weights placed on his shoulders over the years.

"Father, are you well?" Jon inquired, his face falling at the sound of his father's sigh. Eddard rubbed one calloused hand over his tired eyes, then through his unkempt brown hair. He gazed upon Jon for a minute, and in his eyes were an unsure fusion of pride, regret, and sorrow. Those same brown eyes that were weary with the weight of murder, obligations, family, promises, and the rest of the world.

"Jon, if you had to make a decision with family on one hand and duty on the other, what would you choose?" Eddard said. His eyes met Jon's as squinted slightly as if he was studying him. Testing him, even. Jon pondered the question for a moment and struggled to come to any conclusions. _This must be a jest. Father knows that every man has a duty to protect their family. In the midst of winter, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

"I would do whatever is right." Jon replied, and for a split second, he could swear that his father was looking upon him as if expecting another person to be standing in his place. Eddard's mouth slowly broke out into a slight smile, and a soft chuckle that barely escaped from his mouth could be heard.

"And what is right? Especially when love is the death of duty, and duty is the death of love?" Eddard's eyes continued to stare into Jon's very essence. Jon turned his lips into a perplexed frown.

"Why are you asking me all these questions, father?" Jon began. "Is there ever a simple answer to anything we do? One choice could make half the realm want our heads, and the other would infuriate the remaining half." Eddard Stark simply nodded.

"There are many things you must understand before you become a man, Jon, and there are some things that to this day even I'm not sure of." Eddard rised from his seat, walked towards Jon, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Many believe family and duty are on different sides of the same coin. When your faith in that belief is tested, it is then you'll finally realize that they couldn't be more opposite. Like life and death. Like fire and ice. You must find a balance between helping those you love and upholding your vows towards those you are sworn to, and compensate those you fail in their time of need. You must doubt yourself, but never go back on your decision." It was then that Jon realized _why_ Eddard Stark was the truest man in the Seven Kingdoms. No one spoke truer words. It dawned upon Jon that finding that balance between duty and family was what had been tearing him apart until now. The choice between riding south to assume his position as Hand of the King, or remaining in Winterfell to stay with their family.

"What if I make the wrong decision?" Jon asked, fearful of the consequences of his actions.

"I knew someone who made a decision that they thought to be wrong. Acting out of the thrill of what their heart told them instead of heeding the rationalization of their brain. They retreated into their fantasy of intimacy and independence, blind to the reality that the world was falling apart around them. When they woke up, it was far too late to go back. Ask the heartbroken families of the thousands who died if a young girl's romance was justifiable for such a tragedy. If you'd ask the family of the girl the same question, you'd find yourself with a different answer." Jon's eyes widened. His thoughts raced at the suspicion of what his father was trying to imply. That all of it was a lie. _If all those lives died for nothing, how could father believe it was worth it?_ Through the way his father's eyes threatened to drown his cheeks with tears, he knew that a long-buried and bitter truth had been finally brought to light. Jon gave his father a brief goodbye before exiting his solar, making the decision to inform his father of King Robert's offer the following day. They both suffered a sleepless night as their minds wandered to a wild beauty who died long before her time. Lyanna Stark's affair with Rhaegar Targaryen almost reduced the realm to ashes, but perhaps what yielded from their devotion would prevent the fire of people's ambitions from engulfing the realm. Or the bitter cold of the dead from marching over what was left.

* * *

**The End**

**Chapter 3 Coming Soon**


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